


Itanic

by gazebhoe



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: M/M, Titanic parody, it's really stupid jsyk, no one actually dies, nothing about this is serious or historically accurate, takes place in 1997 like the Titanic movie, the Losers are all forty in 1912
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:28:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23170957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gazebhoe/pseuds/gazebhoe
Summary: Eddie walked over to the table and quietly observed its contents. Bill Paxton felt his chest swell with emotion at the sight, imagining what might be going on in Eddie’s head.“Yeah, most of this shit was mine,” Eddie remarked suddenly. “It was a bunch of shit then and it’s a bunch of shit now.”“Oh. Okay then,” Bill Paxton frowned, feeling the drama immediately drain from the room. He paused for a moment, rubbing his temples. “So. Moving on. Are you ready to go back toItanic?”Eddie shrugged. “Sure, why the hell not.”
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 3
Kudos: 2





	Itanic

**Author's Note:**

> Titanic parody with the Loser's Club. They're all forty in the flashbacks. There is zero historical accuracy and a lot of dumb jokes. A lot of the dialogue is directly from the movie with only slight alterations. Will be posted in chapters. I'm not taking this seriously at all so there will be no angst and a very stupid, happy ending. I'm probably gonna skip over the majority of the sinking stuff because I don't like writing action scenes and this isn't supposed to be depressing. There will be background Benverly, StanPat, and Hanbrough. I haven't written a fanfic since like 2008 so, uh. Enjoy? Lol.

It was day time, but it may as well have been midnight in the dark, cold depths of the ocean. Several pairs of eyes watched with great anticipation as a small robot, operated remotely, drifted slowly through the decaying wreckage of a once-great ship. Their only visual, eerie in shades of green and black, was provided by a narrow beam of bright light, mounted on the robot just above its camera. It worked its way slowly through a pile of debris, some of it recognizable, some not.

The men, cramped in a tiny submarine nearby, were tense as the robot managed to free a particularly stuck piece of wood from some tight quarters. In the beam of light, something astonishing appeared.

The man controlling the robot was the first to speak. “Oh baby, baby! Are you seeing this, boss?”

A grin spread across the boss in question’s face. “It’s payday, boys,” he responded triumphantly.

Back on board a large research vessel, the excitement was palpable as the robot’s find was dragged out of the sea, landing on the deck with a heavy thunk. The object was a medium-sized, mud-caked box, made of thick metal and covered in stray remnants of the deep waters that had temporarily reclaimed it. A small crowd of people gathered around, cheering and pouring champagne, celebrating raucously. One man, the boss from the submarine, thought happily of the fame and fortune the safe’s contents was sure to bring him and his team.

The Breath of the Ocean, they called it. Legend said it was the most dazzling, diamond-encrusted asthma inhaler the world had ever seen. Its value and beauty were said to exceed that of the hope diamond. It had to be in there, it just _had_ to. Cameras were present and rolling to capture the big reveal. Everyone was giddy as the safe’s door was pried away.

As rust-colored water poured out, the boss kneeled down and eagerly searched through the safe. Out came old, lumpy paper, a strangely shaped object rusted beyond recognition, and what appeared to be a large folder. The Breath of the Ocean, however, was markedly absent.

“No inhaler?” asked one of the crew men.

The crushing disappointment on the boss’s face was apparent to all. “Shit,” he swore. There was a tense pause.

“Turn the cameras off,” he said wearily.

* * *

Hundreds of miles away on dry land, a television set could be heard as a young woman prepared her great-grandfather his favorite lunch. Sunlight poured in through the many windows of the modest home she shared with him; old photographs, knick-knacks, and houseplants dominated the décor. A small pack of pomeranian dogs danced and barked at the young woman’s feet as she brought the plate of food to the elderly gentleman, seated comfortably in an overstuffed chair.

“Here you go, Grandpa,” she said to him kindly, placing the plate in his hands, “One gluten-free tomato and kale sandwich. No shellfish, no dairy, no peanuts, no tree nuts. Low-sodium chips on the side.”

“Thank you,” he responded, smiling sincerely. He took a bite, then pointed shakily at the television. “Could you turn that up? I can’t hear a god damned thing over these dogs.”

The young woman made a face. “Grandpa—” She warned.

“Sorry, hon,” the man apologized, a hint of playful sarcasm in his tone, “I can’t hear a _gosh darned_ thing over these dogs.”

“Better,” the young woman replied cheerfully. She knelt down to turn up the small television’s volume.

On the fuzzy screen was the face of the boss from the submarine. The old man and his great-granddaughter noted his bright blue eyes and roguish good looks. Across the bottom of the screen was his name: BILL PAXTON.

As the man’s voice became clear with the higher volume and the quieting of the dogs, the television’s tinny speakers spluttered out, “—the safe was located in one of the most luxurious guest rooms of the _Itanic_. We didn’t find what we’d expected, but we did find these,” continued Bill Paxton. He held up the odd, rusty object and the large folder.

“Our team’s expert scientists and restorers have revealed the true nature of these mysterious items,” the man paused, eyes darting to the rusty object. “This lump of old metal here was determined to be the remains of an individual’s wireless microphone— it’s off-brand, not something you’d expect to find in a first class cabin, and certainly not in a safe. Engraved in it are the initials R.T. No known _Itanic_ passenger had these initials.” Next, he looked to the folder. “And in this folder were hand-written notes on what can only be described as a very personalized, very amateur, comedy routine. We don’t believe it’s a coincidence that these two items were found together.”

At the sound of this revelation, the old man’s heavy brows lifted. Had his great-granddaughter been watching him instead of Bill Paxton, she may have noticed the redness that began to creep up his ears.

The shot of Mr. Paxton on the screen widened, showing a very serious-looking interviewer standing next to him. “This is all very fascinating and, well, _unusual_ , Mr. Paxton, but why exactly are you sharing these particular artifacts with the country?”

The camera zoomed in very rapidly on Bill Paxton’s face, likely for dramatic effect. One of the dogs barked, startled.

“There’s an interesting joke in these notes that we believe will lead us to a truly amazing find, one lost to time,” Bill Paxton went on, his roguishness intensifying. His eyes flickered down as he shuffled through a packet of paper, a hard copy of the restored comedy notes. “Well, it’s a very juvenile joke, if you can even call it that. But it's _definitely_ not for kids,” Bill Paxton looked handsomely back at the interviewer, who nodded in agreement— perhaps with what he was saying, or perhaps with his handsomeness.

“So anyway,” he went on, clearing his throat, “Cover the kids’ ears. This is not me paraphrasing, it’s a direct quote: ‘Like your inhaler, like your mom— when I suck on you, I can breathe again.’”

“Oh my,” the interviewer responded, “That’s very obscene. And bewildering.”

A very beleaguered, growl-like sound came from the throat of the old man. He made a lot of weird noises these days, so his great-granddaughter didn’t pay it any mind.

Bill Paxton wasn’t finished.

“A few lines later, we get a name— ‘Eddie Spaghetti.’”

At this, a resounding, abrupt fuck-word erupted from the old man’s mouth, followed by a chorus of barking and his great-granddaughter admonishing, “Grandpa!”

A few moments later, the chaos had settled and the old man was on the phone. On the other end of the line was none other than Bill Paxton, bright blue eyes glimmering like the endless sea.

“Hey, so, my name is Eddie,” said the old man, “Eddie Tozier. And I was just wondering if you’d found the Breath of the Ocean.”

“Alright,” replied Bill, blue eyes widening. “You have my attention, Mr. Tozier.”

“I saw you on T.V. with the microphone and the, uh, _comedy_ , and well. Back in 1912, I had another surname. And an unfortunate nickname.”

“Do you mean to tell me—?” Bill Paxton trailed off, soft lips parting in a manner most of the known universe would consider sexually arousing.

“Oh yeah,” Eddie replied, wincing a little. “The man in the notes is me. I'm Eddie Spaghetti.”

* * *

It didn’t take long after that for Eddie, his great-granddaughter, his vast quantities of luggage, and his favorite pomeranian to be whisked off to Bill Paxton’s research ship. While they were all getting settled and unpacked, Bill Paxton and one of his fellow researchers walked along the ship’s upper deck, the other man loudly expressing his displeasure with this turn of events.

“He’s goddamned a liar, a fraud,” the man insisted, “He says he’s Edward Kaspbrak, right? Edward Kaspbrak died on the _Itanic_. At the age of forty. You realize that, right? _Forty_. If he lived, he’d be well over a hundred by now.”

“A hundred and twenty-four next month,” Bill replied coolly.

“Okay, so he’s a very old goddamn liar! I traced him as far back as the 20s, he was driving cabs back then in New York. You know you can’t trust a New York cab driver! He went by Tozier back then, too. I can’t find any documentation that he _ever_ went by Kaspbrak,” the man went on.

“And everybody who knows about the inhaler is supposed to be dead or on this ship, but _he_ _knows_. I want to hear what he’s got to say,” Bill Paxton shot back. That seemed to shut the man up quickly.

An hour or so later, deep in the heart of the ship, Eddie found himself staring into a basin of clear liquid. A few inches beneath its surface were several sheets of hand-written notes, perfectly restored. Eddie felt the memories flood back. A young pair of gray-blue eyes flashed through his mind, magnified behind a pair of thick, dark glasses. A pre-recorded laugh track echoed softly in the far reaches of his consciousness, along with ghostly whispers of _your mom_. He rolled his eyes. “That asshole,” he said to himself, frowning and shaking his head. “God he was annoying.”

Bill Paxton, who had been quietly observing Eddie from nearby, approached him slowly.

“Back in the 1700s, Louis XVI wore a fabulous stone. It was known as the Blue Diamond of the Crown. It disappeared right when Louis lost everything from the neck up. The theory goes that the crown diamond was recut into hundreds of pieces to adorn a functional inhaler, which became known as the Breath of the Ocean. Today it would be the most valuable hand-held medical device in the world.”

Eddie sighed. “It was so stupidly heavy. The jewels were smooth so it was hard as hell to grip, too. It was basically useless as an inhaler, even if it was technically functional. I only brought it out of the safe this once,” he said, gesturing to the notes.

“Are you sure this was written for you?” Bill Paxton responded, looking Eddie up and down. “The jokes on this page in particular describe a man with ‘the eyes of a newborn foal,’ ‘the abs of a silverback gorilla,’ and ‘the ballistic energy of a ferret on bath salts.’”

“That would be me,” Eddie replied, a little embarrassed, “To him, at least.”

“I’m guessing we’ll find out more about ‘him’ later,” Bill Paxton mused, his expression so saucy it was probably illegal, even on international waters. “But I have a question for you. I happen to know who the last purchaser of the inhaler was, tracked through an insurance claim which was settled under terms of absolute secrecy. Do you know who that claimant was, Eddie?”

“Someone named Myra, I presume,” Eddie replied without hesitation.

“Right. For a jewel-encrusted inhaler that was bought as a gift for her fiancé— that’s you— a week before she sailed on _Itanic_. The claim was filed right after the sinking. So the inhaler had to have gone down with the ship. See the date on these notes?”

“April 14, 1912,” Eddie read aloud. He was getting a little annoyed with this man, despite his astronomical sexiness.

“So that means you had the inhaler the day _Itanic_ sank,” Bill Paxton continued. “You know, I’ll happily compensate you for any information you can tell me that leads to its recovery.”

“Nah, I’m good,” Eddie replied. “Just give me the notes and the rusty old microphone and we’re square.”

“Deal,” Bill Paxton replied quickly. Realizing Eddie must have a fondness for sentimental items, he motioned for the old man to follow him to a work table covered in various artifacts. “You know, you might like these, too. Maybe even recognize some. They were all recovered from your stateroom.”

Eddie walked over to the table and quietly observed its contents. His brown eyes shone very much like a newborn foal’s as they lingered over each item, tarnished with age and decades beneath the deep sea, but still remarkably beautiful after painstaking efforts of restoration. Bill Paxton felt his chest swell with emotion at the sight, imagining what might be going on in Eddie’s head.

“Yeah, most of this shit was mine,” Eddie remarked suddenly. “It was a bunch of shit then and it’s a bunch of shit now.”

“Oh. Okay then,” Bill Paxton frowned, feeling the drama immediately drain from the room. He paused for a moment, rubbing his temples. “So. Moving on. Are you ready to go back to _Itanic_?”

Eddie shrugged. “Sure, why the hell not.”

After a fair bit of yelling and shuffling about, Eddie found himself sitting uncomfortably in a hard metal chair. He was already deeply irritated with this whole situation. He wanted those damn notes, though; that act was written for _him_ , and more importantly, written by a certain someone he cared deeply for- even if he was insufferable. He just had to suck it up and tell his story to this room full of assholes to get them. At least his great-granddaughter was here, looking out for him. She’d never heard the story, or knew he’d even been on _Itanic_. He was happy to finally tell her, at least. He just hoped he'd finish up before his ass fell asleep.

“Well, Eddie,” Bill Paxton urged. “Tell us. Tell us what it was like.”

Eddie took a deep breath. “It’s been eighty-four years—”

“Just tell us what you can,” interrupted Bill, earning a very frightening glare from Eddie.

“Oh my god, let me finish!” Eddie snapped. Bill Paxton shrank back, throwing his hands up in surrender. “ _As I was saying_ \- it’s been eighty-four years, and I can still smell the fresh paint. That part fucking sucked, honestly, god knows what was in those fumes in 1912. But anyway, all the China had never been used, the sheets never slept in. I was pretty thrilled about that. _Itanic_ was called the ship of dreams. And well, it truly was... okay, I guess.”

Eddie closed his eyes, trying to take himself back to that time. And as he continued his story, he, and the researchers, began to feel like they were all really there. Maybe it was because Eddie was a particularly good storyteller. Maybe it was the maturin root he’d slipped in all their drinks.

* * *

It was April 10, 1912 in Southampton, England. The pier next to the massive _Itanic_ was bustling with activity. Luggage and cargo was carted in droves as families and friends said tearful goodbyes to their loved ones. Others were there just to witness the spectacle. In the midst of all this, a luxury car was lifted by pulleys and into a hatch: an enormous Cadillac Escalade.

The crowds parted momentarily as a small car drove its way through. Out of the car stepped a young Eddie. He was handsome at forty years old, with slicked-back dark hair, wide brown eyes, and a modest build. He was dressed in a simple black suit. Perhaps beneath that suit _were_ the abs of a silverback gorilla. He paused to help his fiancée, Myra, a stout blonde woman adorned in fine clothes, out of their vehicle.

“It’s intense out here, Myra,” Eddie remarked. “There’s a lot of people. Like, _a lot_. I know we’re outside, but this has to be against multiple fire codes. They’re doing lice checks over there too. I’m glad that’s happening, I don’t want lice on board— but also, I might throw up.”

“Oh come now, Eddie,” Myra replied. “Don’t look at the people, look at the ship! It’s going to be so luxurious. Squash courts, a Parisian café, Turkish baths. You like those things, right dear?”

Myra took a moment to help another woman out of the car, Eddie’s mother, Sonia. They looked remarkably alike.

“Your son is much too hard to impress,” Myra sighed.

Sonia, however, seemed even more anxious than Eddie. “So this is the ship they say is unsinkable? You’re sure? I don’t want my Eddie-bear getting hurt, Myra.”

“It’s unsinkable, Mrs. Kaspbrak. I’ve been assured,” Myra responded. With that, the group made their way forward.

Eddie personally didn’t feel like this was the ship of dreams, at least not _his_ dreams. Not only was it named _Itanic_ because the T fell off during construction and no one bothered to fix it, which had to be a bad omen of some sort— he felt like a prisoner as soon as he stepped on board. On the outside, he certainly looked like a classy gentleman. On the inside, he was swearing up a storm.

Back at the port, four men were busily playing cards at a rickety table in a dark, smoky pub. Two were Americans. One, Richie Tozier, was stocky and tall with dark, messy locks, thick-rimmed glasses, and a very eclectic sense of dress that matched his personality well. The second American, Stanley Uris, was shorter, lankier, with wavy brown hair, and a calm demeanor. He wore glasses too, but they weren’t nearly as bulky as Richie’s. He was dressed sharply and conservatively.

The other two men playing with them were Swedes named Olaf and Sven. With names like that, thank god they were both long dead by 2013.

“Well boys,” Richie quipped, grinning. “It’s the moment of truth. Someone’s life’s about to change.”

Stan, Sven, and Olaf all put down their cards. Richie held on to his for the time being.

“Let’s see—” Richie continued, “Stan, you got zilch. Olaf, nothing. Sven? Hmm, two pair.” He turned to Stan, putting on his best puppy dog face. “I’m sorry, Staniel.”

“Seriously, Rich?” Stan replied, raising an eyebrow. He was on to him.

Richie’s eyes lit up immediately. “I’m sorry, Staniel, because I know how much you love this pub, and you’re not gonna see it for a while! We’re going to America! Full house, boys!” He exclaimed, throwing down his hand.

At that, Stan smiled gratefully up at Richie as the two Swedish men erupted into an all-out brawl. They’d just lost their boarding passes for the _Itanic_.

“We’re goin’ home, Stan the man!” Richie celebrated, embracing his friend. Despite himself, Stan couldn’t help but grin a little.

“Lads,” came a voice. It was the barkeep. “You do know _Itanic_ leaves in ten minutes, right?”

“Oh shit,” Richie exclaimed, “Fuck! C’mon!”

And with that, Stan and Richie raced through the crowds to the ship. They made it on board, but barely.

Richie was bubbling with excitement as he and Stan raced up on deck. He began waving goodbye along with all the other passengers.

“What are you doing?” Stan asked, bemused. “You don’t know any of those people.”

“Yeah, and your point is?” Richie responded.

Stan rolled his eyes, but his smile was warm. “Fine, you weirdo,” he resigned, joining his friend but waving with slightly more reserve.

One thing Stan was sure of, especially knowing Richie: this was going to be one hell of an eventful week.


End file.
